Your Faithful Servant
by DwaejiTokki
Summary: The story of how Ratcliffe and Wiggins met, and a look into their relationship before the start of the movie, during, and after. If you've seen it, completely disregard Pocahontas II. RatcliffexWiggins.


Your Faithful Servant

 **Summary** : The story of how Ratcliffe and Wiggins met, and a look into their relationship before the start of the movie, during, and after. If you've seen it, completely disregard _Pocahontas II_. RatcliffexWiggins.

 **Rating** : T

 **Disclaimer** : If I owned _Disney_ or _Pocahontas_ , you'd know about it.

It was by chance that they had met.

While Governor John Ratcliffe had been an up and coming young noble in the court of the king, Wiggins had been a lowly servant assigned to clean Ratcliffe's rooms for the duration of his stay. In all honesty, they were never supposed to see one another.

Wiggins was a good servant, yes. He quietly went about his day, polishing and scrubbing and tidying up, lending help where it was needed. It was just that he hadn't quite expected for Ratcliffe to return early from the council meeting, nursing a rather bad headache.

He froze, dusting rag mid-sweep on the bedside table. But Ratcliffe didn't seem to notice him. Wiggins quickly tucked the rag into his fraying belt, intending to slip out. His slight frame was just wiry enough that he might make it before Ratcliffe shut the door.

"What's your name?"

Wiggins immediately snapped to attention as though he were a soldier, back ramrod straight and shoulders back. With his eyes squeezed tightly shut, he lifted his chin and responded, "Richard Wiggins, Governor, Sir!"

"Wiggins," Ratcliffe repeated, mumbling the name as though tasting it. His dark eyes raised to the servant's. Realizing that he was not looking back, Ratcliffe raked his eyes down the man's appearance.

His chestnut hair was neatly combed and tied at the base of his skull. He wore simple, careworn clothes, though it was obvious that he tried hard to keep himself neat. Wiggins was not ugly by any means, but the governor still noted the horse-like face. Wiggins was unlike himself in every way. Ratcliffe was a large, dark man with a hawkish nose, and dressed rather adornately.

Ratcliffe's eyes roamed around the room and saw that his mess from the morning had been cleared away.

"You are the chamber...maid?"

Wiggins' chocolate eyes snapped open, and his cheeks tinged pink. "Well, in a way, yes, I suppose, Sir. Although I do prefer..." His eyes widened further as he realized he was rambling, and he quickly snapped his mouth shut with an audible click.

Ratcliffe merely blinked at him slowly, fingers absently massaging his temple. "Prefer what, Wiggins?"

"To...to be called chamber butler..."

"Very well, then. Understandable." Ratcliffe turned and sat heavily at the table. "Don't mind me, Wiggins. Carry on, or leave, if you must." He tipped his head back, exhaling through his lips as he tried to find a way to mentally manage the pounding in his skull.

Wiggins had made a beeline for the door, but then hesitated and turend back. "Sir?" he said tentatively, wringing his hands.

"What is it, Wiggins?"

"Are you all right, Sir?"

Ratcliffe's eyes fluttered open and he raised his head to look at the servant, who seemed more nervous than ever under his scrutiny. "It is merely a headache, Wiggins. I shall be fine upon a moment's rest."

Wiggins nodded uncertainly. Then his face lit up. "Sir, would you like a glass of water? Perhaps a temple massage? I could fetch you a cold wet cloth to lay over your brow, Sir."

"Water would be nice," Ratcliffe answered, too tired and in pain to be taken aback by the younger man's sudden enthusiasm. "Thank you, Wiggins."

The servant had already crossed the room, practically flying, and poured water from the pitcher on the far desk into a chalice. "Here you are, Sir!" He proffered it to Ratcliffe, who took it gratefully and sipped at it.

"Don't mind me, Wiggins," he said after a moment. "You must carry on with your work, hm?"

"Oh, yes, Sir," Wiggins nodded. "Thank you."

Humming lightly under his breath an aimless tune, Wiggins pulled the dusting cloth from his belt and resumed his duties. He moved leisurely, though, feeling as though this noble wouldn't so much mind his company. Ratcliffe had even thanked him for the water! When was the last time he had ever been thanked for anything, let alone getting a meager glass of liquid? Wiggins ducked his head to hide his ridiculous smile.

Politeness was just politeness, yes, but it made him feel all warm and fuzzy regardless. After all, as an odds-and-ends young servant, Wiggins was entirely unused to even being spoken to as another person.

"What song is that, Wiggins?" murmured Ratcliffe after a few moments.

Wiggins straightened and looked over his shoulder at the governor, who had not moved from his seat but lounged tiredly in it. "A lullaby, Sir," he replied, delightedly surprised. "One my mother used to sing."

"Hm," Ratcliffe breathed. "I like it."

The young servant positively beamed, though Ratcliffe would never notice it. He seemed nearly asleep, anyway. So Wiggins returned to his work, perhaps even more slowly than before, and resumed the tune a little more loudly.

"Hey nonny-nonny, ho nonny-nonny, hey nonny-nonny..."

Sparing yet another glance at the governor, Wiggins trailed off. Ratcliffe appeared to be slumbering. Good. Wiggins was rather proud of himself for having helped the older man deal with his nasty bout of headache. No doubt it was caused by stress, judging from the frown lines and the bags beneath his eyes.

He decided that he would continue his work in silence so as not to disturb him.

"What a strange noble," Wiggins said under his breath as he scrubbed at a particularly stubborn spot on the floor. "He doesn't seem to mind rank. He spoke to me as an equal, methinks. Governor Ratcliffe is rather nice, hm?"

Wiggins nearly leapt out of his skin when Ratcliffe drily replied, "Yes, well, I wouldn't be caught dead doing a servant's work, Wiggins. Speaking to and publicly socializing with those of a lower class are vastly different scenarios."

"I-I-I," Wiggins stammered, wringing his hands nervously, "I'm so sorry, Sir! I should not have spoken, I know, but sometimes my mouth just seems to have a-a mind of its own, Sir!"

Ratcliffe chuckled, the sound a deep rumbling in his chest. "Not to worry, Wiggins. It's a tact I've learned from my grandmother. If you pretend to be asleep, you'll quickly learn all of the gossip of the manor. It's one way to cut troubles at the quick, if you will."

"Oh, I see," Wiggins said, subdued. He felt his cheeks and ears burning with shame.

"I daresay someone like me is refreshing," Ratcliffe said, still unmoving, "in such a stuffy palace like this. Don't get me wrong, Wiggins. This place is exquisite, and I would love to live here, but the _people_! How can one stand such company for so long? Although I do suppose one must at least at like this. It helps one survive, you know."

"Survive, Sir?" Wiggins repeated, perplexed.

"Ah, you wouldn't know, would you, Wiggins?" Ratcliffe sighed. "You should count yourself lucky, then. All this pretending is so tiresome. Having no friends in which to confide your secrets and troubles, and having to play by the rules. Tiresome, Wiggins.

"I confess, Wiggins, I do not have a headache. I merely used it as an excuse to escape that dreadful meeting. Taxes, taxes. Always the taxes. I could do away with taxes, Wiggins, and not feel the least bit sorry for it, even if I became destitute afterwards."

At last Ratcliffe sat up, dragging a hand down his pallid face. He looked ten years older.

"Oh, Wiggins, listen to me prattle on. You should not have to hear this. I've been holding you back from continuing on with your work, haven't I?"

"Oh, no, Sir," Wiggins replied. "Although I have been hired to clean and offer my assistance to any who need it around the castle, I have a rather lot of time to spare, Sir." Wiggins pushed himself to his feet and shook his dusting rag out of the open window. "Besides, Sir, it's nice to be spoken to. Not many people around here do, unless it's to give me orders."

Ratcliffe's lips twisted up in a smirk. "Indeed. But, Wiggins, another thing I have learned from my grandmother, may she rest in peace, is that servants are often the best company."

Wiggins beamed. "Is that so?"

"Yes," he said, swirling the water in his chalice. "My grandmother had quite a few friends in her servants."

"That's wonderful," Wiggins said. "I don't have any friends myself, but if I did I would hope they would be as kind and witty as your grandmother seems."

Ratcliffe raised at eyebrow at Wiggins' chipper tone, but as Wiggins was busying himself with the cleaning the servant didn't notice. "And why not?"

Wiggins' smile disappeared as he turned, brow furrowed. "Sir?"

"You said you have no friends," Ratcliffe clarified. "You seem a nice enough lad. So, why not?"

"Ah," he smiled sadly. "It's a bit of a long story, Sir."

"I've got plenty of time," Ratcliffe replied, "and so have you, apparently. What better way to pass the time than to talk? Unless, of course, you'd rather speak of something other than yourself."

"Oh, no, Sir," Wiggins shook his head, ponytail bouncing. "It's just that no one has ever really asked me before, Sir."

Ratcliffe waited patiently, taking a long draft of his water.

Wiggins wrung the cloth in his hands, taking a deep breath. "It was a few years ago. My family and I - Mother, Father, and little Beatrice and I - we all lived in lower London. Father was a watchmaker, and Mother did laundry and sewing.

"One day I when I returned home from school, I found that our house was ablaze, and our neighbors were frantically trying to put it out before it spread. Unfortunately, my parents had both stayed from work that day to care for little Bea, who'd taken ill with the mumps, you see. To this day I don't know what had started the fire, but my family had perished in it.

"By the time the fire was put out, the neighbors realized that I was the only one left alive. Somehow or another a rumor was started that I had made sure that a fire would start before I went to school, and so I was quickly shunned. But I would never have tried to kill my own family, Sir, believe me.

"Soon enough, things got so bad for me in the orphanage that I ran away. I worked a few odd jobs for upper class families, usually chimney sweeping. But after a near fall, I quickly gave that up and came here, begging for a job.

"The mistress who takes care of the servants pitied me enough to give me a job, and here I've been since, Sir. Not the most impressive storyteller, me, I'm afraid." Wiggins clamped his mouth shut as he finished, averting his gaze to his shoe buckle.

"Fate is indiscriminately cruel, Wiggins," Ratcliffe said somberly. "But the trials of man are ordained by God to weed out the weak, which you are not. I am sure that you shall see your family again someday, Wiggins."

Wiggins felt his eyes well up, and he snuck a quick glance to see whether the governor were being serious. His expression seemed sincere enough, so Wiggins offered him a watery smile. He was glad to see that Ratcliffe's lips turned upwards slightly.

"Thank you, Sir," Wiggins whispered huskily.

Ratcliffe cleared his throat. "Yes, well, you must excuse me, Wiggins," he said. "I should be catching up on some paperwork. It never hurts to get ahead, hm?"

"Of course, Sir," Wiggins said agreeably. "A good tactic, Sir."

The next hour or so was spent in companionable silence, with the exception of cleaning noises and rustling parchment. By the time Wiggins had finished up, Ratcliffe looked as though he really were going to fall asleep, and he excused himself to go about the rest of his chores.

"Oh, and Wiggins," Ratcliffe said.

Wiggins poked his head back into the room, eyebrows raised expectantly. "Yes, Sir?"

"Tomorrow our meeting should end by the time the bells toll three," he said without looking up. "Come, if you wish."

Wiggins beamed brightly. "Of course, Sir."

And then he hurried away before it was even harder for him to leave.

Over the next few days, Ratcliffe and Wiggins spent as much time together as they could. It was rather refreshing on both sides to speak without constraint, to laugh aloud, and to relax in another's presence. For Wiggins, it was the feeling of finally having a friend, although there was a sort of hovering sadness. Ratcliffe was due to leave the next morning, so Wiggins would be left all along. Again.

Wiggins would do his best to hide it, of course. There was no need to make such a nice man as Ratcliffe feel bad or to allow the man to pity Wiggins. No need at all.

The servant could make do.

So he resolved to pretend as though nothing was the matter.

"Wiggins," Ratcliffe said as he rolled up a particularly long sheet of parchment, "you are sad."

"Sad, Sir? Oh, no, Sir," Wiggins replied cheerily.

"You've been dusting that corner for the better part of an hour, Wiggins," Ratcliffe responded drily, shooting the disheartened servant a sidelong look.

"Oh," Wiggins uttered, shoulders slumping as he sat back. He sighed heavily, then outwardly perked up again. "Well, an extra bit of cleaning never hurt anyone, Sir. Just making sure all is spic and span before you leave, Sir."

"Hm." Ratcliffe stood and walked over to his semi-packed trunk, tossing the scroll carelessly inside. He turned to his wardrobe. "That reminds me, Wiggins."

"Would you like me to pack for you, Sir?"

"No, we can leave that to whatever dredge shows up in the morning," Ratcliffe replied flippantly. "I mean I must speak with you about a pressing matter."

"Oh, I'm good at pressing, Sir," Wiggins chirped. "I've got a whole lot of pressed flowers that I've got from the garden. They're especially plentiful in spring."

Ratcliffe rolled his eyes. "Yes, Wiggins, indeed. But I have seen the gardens here, and while they are large and bountiful, they are nowhere near as beautiful as the ones at my own estate."

"I'm sure, Sir."

"Yes, well, you'll see for yourself, perhaps."

Wiggins looked at the governor quizzically. "Sir?"

"Wiggins," Ratcliffe said imperiously, turning to the kneeling servant and standing akimbo, "I am offering you a job as my personal manservant. To travel with and attend to me as I need it, and to live at my estate."

He stared blankly up at the hawk-nosed noble, eyebrows raised and lips slightly parted. Suddenly realizing that Ratcliffe was awaiting an answer, Wiggins shook himself and said, quite intelligently, "Uh...?"

Another eyeroll, this time accompanied by a rather embarrassed clearing of the throat. "Wiggins, would you like to be my personal manservant? Of course, you'll be housed and paid. Much better than anything you've got here, I'm sure." Though he held his confident posture and expression, it was quite clear to Wiggins that Ratcliffe was nervous.

Ratcliffe was nervous.

He couldn't help but to smile. "Sir," Wiggins said in the most respectful tone he could muster, "I accept. Thank you, Sir! Thank you!"

Ratcliffe's lips twitched. "Well, I have been in need of one, Wiggins. And, since you've already gotten to know of my tastes, what better candidate than you? It would certainly save time in training, hm?"

Wiggins nodded vigorously, too ecstatic for words.

"We leave when the bell tolls eight, Wiggins. Be ready."

"Oh, I will, Sir! I will!"

"Good," Ratcliffe nodded approvingly. "You are dismissed. I'm sure you have much to attend to before your leave."

"Of course, Sir. I shall see you on the morrow, Sir!"

Wiggins bowed clumsily, then hastily made an exit. He only just managed to not slam the door behind him, excited as he was. Once the door was latched shut behind him, Wiggins took off at a run, his thick-soled shoes slapping against the polished floor.

First he would have to inform the mistress that he would be leaving. Then he would pack his few things and lie awake on his cot. Wiggins was too excited to sleep. He felt so bubbly and full of energy that it felt as though he could run across the whole of England, take a swim across the English Channel to France for a walking tour, and then be back in London by dawn.

Ratcliffe was simply the kindest man Wiggins had ever met. Not even his late father compared.

Finally, Wiggins' life was taking a turn for the better.

* * *

"Did you sleep, Wiggins?"

Wiggins shook himself, sitting ramrod straight. Ratcliffe, seated on the carriage bench across from him, raised an eyebrow. "Not at all, Sir," Wiggins beamed. "I was much too excited, Sir. I still am, Sir."

Ratcliffe rolled his eyes. "We've a ways to go yet, Wiggins. I govern the next town over. We've hardly even left the king's estate, and you're wilting like a parched chrysanthemum."

"Sorry, Sir," Wiggins said, though his smile told his true feelings. "Did you sleep well, Sir?"

"Like a kitten, Wiggins."

"Do...Do kittens sleep well, Sir?"

Ratcliffe snorted. "Yes, Wiggins, I imagine so. In any case, I slept through the night quite peacefully, thank you."

"Oh," Wiggins laughed. "Very good, Sir."

"You should get some sleep whilst you can, Wiggins," Ratcliffe said, turning his gaze to the window. "When we arrive at my estate, you'll be shown around by another servant as I attend to some business. And, Wiggins?"

"Yes, Sir?"

"Should anyone ask why you've been hired," he drawled, "it is because you are so highly recommended."

"Am I, Sir?"

Ratcliffe gave a long-suffering sigh. "No, Wiggins. It is a clever explanation for your spontaneous hire."

"I see, Sir."

They passed the next few minutes in silence.

"Sir?"

"Yes, Wiggins."

"Why _did_ you hire me, Sir?" Wiggins asked softly. He fidgeted a bit when Ratcliffe did not immediately reply, afraid he had overstepped his bounds as a servant.

"I have my reasons, Wiggins," Ratcliffe said at last, tone guarded. "But if you must have a reason, I suppose it is because I have, in our few days together, become attached to your friendly demeanor. Now, sleep."

Wiggins blushed, ears burning. "Oh, thank you, Sir. Of course, Sir."

"Wiggins."

"Yes, Sir." Wiggins quickly made himself comfortable by leaning against the padded wall, arms tucked around his thin frame. He couldn't help the small smile that tugged at the corner of his lips. He quickly drifted off.

Ratcliffe's eyes strayed from the passing scenery of Londontown to Wiggins' sleeping form. The morning light kissed the young servant's face, illuminating the curves of his cheekbones, the thick lashes, and the lush pink lips.

No, Ratcliffe could not tell Wiggins that he was in love. Then Wiggins would leave. It was better to keep it a secret, to maintain friendship. Two men could not fall in love. It was simply impossible. Besides, Wiggins could never love a man like Ratcliffe.

With a sigh, Ratcliffe forced his gaze to return to the window, but he could not stop his occasional glances to his new manservant. His heart felt heavy in his chest.

* * *

"He came _so_ highly recommended," Ratcliffe drawled, sweeping past several of his staff members. They regarded the newcomer with silent apprehension. Ratcliffe had never hired anyone before; the manor was well-equipped with all the personnel it needed.

Wiggins bowed politely to the six servants lined up. The oldest was a withering butler, followed by a middle-aged woman who Wiggins guessed was the cook. Another man was the groundskeeper, judging by his work clothes, and the last three were young women - obviously maids.

"Once you have finished showing Wiggins around the estate," Ratcliffe said regally as he ascended the red-carpeted stairs, "bring him to my rooms."

"Yes, Sir," said the oldest of the maids. She was a portly young woman with round red cheeks, a neat bun of dark hair, and hazel eyes that crinkled at the corners even when she was not smiling. "If you'll come with me, Wiggins."

Wiggins nodded agreeably and followed, casting his hazel eyes about the place. He wanted to memorize everything as quickly as possible.

Everything was expensive and immaculate - the rugs, the vases, the paintings, the furniture. They all gleamed as though they were new, much like they had in the palace. Only Wiggins was much more excited to see these things. They belonged to his new master, his kind master, Ratcliffe. He would take extra-special care of them.

The tour did not take as long as Wiggins had thought it would. Soon enough, he found himself delivered to the doors of Ratcliffe's rooms. There probably wasn't much for Wiggins to do, as the servants had already taken care of most things and no one was entirely sure what Wiggins' new job would entail. It was best to let the master take care of it.

Wiggins knocked, and when Ratcliffe bade him enter, he did so with a pleasant smile.

Ratcliffe glanced up to see who had entered, then returned to his work. He was seated at his desk in a plush purple chair, quill scratching at one half-furled parchment upon many. "Hello, Wiggins. I trust you found everything in order?"

"Oh, yes, Sir," Wiggins nodded. "And I'm to sleep in the antechamber, yes?"

"Of course. Unless there's a problem with that."

"No, Sir! Not at all, Sir."

"Good." With a particularly furious flick of his hand, Ratcliffe signed the parchment and set his quill in the inkwell. Then he stood up. "You are to be my manservant, Wiggins. You will wake me in the mornings in a timely fashion, deliver my meals, clean my rooms, and generally serve my desires."

Wiggins beamed. "I will do my best, Sir."

"Ah, and Wiggins," Ratcliffe said, gesturing to the other side of the room. "This is Percy, my beloved companion. I was not able to bring him with me to the palace. I trust you'll treat him well, should you ever find yourself in charge of him."

Wiggins clapped his hands and bounced on his feet, hardly able to contain his excitement. "Percy, is it? Oh, how I adore him already! How lucky for me. I love dogs, very much - Sir."

Ratcliffe's lips quirked in amusement, and he lifted his chin. "Well, if you love him that much, you may be his caretaker as well."

"Really, Sir?" Wiggins gasped, eyebrows nearly disappearing into his hairline. "Oh, thank you, Sir! I won't let either of you down, I swear it, Sir!"

"Good," Ratcliffe nodded approvingly.

"May I pet him, Sir?" Wiggins asked eagerly.

"Well, you _are_ his caretaker, are you not?"

"I am, Sir." Wiggins flounced over to the dog, kneeling in front of him on his grand, dog-sized bed.

Ratcliffe watched Wiggins as he fussed over Percy, who lavished in the attention, as usual.

"Wiggins," he said.

"Yes, Sir?"

"Have you heard of the New World?"

Wiggins turned on the spot, still scratching underneath Percy's chin. "A bit, Sir. Mostly rumors. It's a land across the sea, isn't it?"

"Yes," Ratcliffe said. "Discovered less than a decade ago by a fellow named Columbo."

"How exciting!" Wiggins grinned. "He certainly must be rich now. Lucky."

"Indeed," the governor agreed. "King James wishes to claim some of the land in the New World for England."

"How does one do that, Sir?"

"By planting a flag, of course!" Ratcliffe exclaimed. "Even a barbarian knows that if a flag is planted, to whomsoever that flag belongs then owns whatever one can see from the flag's position."

"Ohh," Wiggins nodded. "Are there barbarians there, Sir?"

"There are," Ratcliffe said somberly. "Wiggins, those who do not fear God are abominations, and therefore are undeserving of land. That is precisely why King James, along with many others, wishes to take it from them."

Wiggins shuddered. "Those who do not fear God, Sir, are certainly worshipers of some Satanic force."

"Indeed, Wiggins, indeed."

They lapsed into a short silence, the only sounds Percy's pants and growls of pleasure as Wiggins continued his ministrations.

"Are you going to the New World, Sir?"

Ratcliffe blinked in surprise. "Yes," he answered. "How did you guess?"

"Rumors, Sir. The meeting with the king, I've heard it was a discussion, or a vote, to see who would lead an expedition to the New World," Wiggins said.

"I see," Ratcliffe nodded. "You are clever, Wiggins."

"Won't it be dangerous, Sir?"

"Possibly."

"Will you be taking soldiers, Sir?"

"I shall take with me the finest crew," Ratcliffe replied. "Are you worried about me, Wiggins?"

Wiggins shot him a small smile over his shoulders. "A servant should always worry for his master, Sir."

Ratcliffe chuckled indulgently. "Should a master worry for his servant?"

"Not if the master does not wish to, Sir."

"Well," Ratcliffe drawled, "I suppose I should worry for you, Wiggins. You won't last without me, will you?"

"I will wait, Sir."

"You could wait," Ratcliffe said slowly, observing Wiggins closely for a reaction. "Or, if you're really so worried about little old me, you could come along to the New World."

Wiggins stopped petting Percy, much to the pug's displeasure, and turned. His eyebrows were raised, jaw slack with shock. "You do mean that, Sir?"

"I never say anything I don't mean, Wiggins," Ratcliffe said. "In the New World, I expect to find mountains of gold, you know. With those riches, I shall become quite favored by the king and given even more riches. Then I shall leave this horrid London to somewhere far away."

"You dislike London, Sir?"

"Dislike London?" Ratcliffe said. "I hate London. It's nearly as dreary as the people. Paris - Now there's a city in which I could live."

Wiggins nodded. "What is Paris like, Sir?"

"Paris is exquisite," Ratcliffe said dreamily. "The people are wonderful, with great taste. The food is simply fabulous, Wiggins. Paris is the city of light, of love. It is beautiful at night."

Wiggins stared in wonderment at Ratcliffe. Though he was unable to imagine such a thing, his master made it sound so inspiring. "Then you should live there, Sir! Once you've found the gold of the New World and received King James' favor, Paris should be honored to house you, Sir!"

Ratcliffe puffed up under the praise. "Indeed, Wiggins. Governor John Ratcliffe, his manservant Richard Wiggins, and his beloved pup Percy would make great additions to such a city."

"And me, Sir?" Wiggins squeaked, surprised.

"But of course!" Ratcliffe snorted. "I can't go anywhere without my personal servant, can I?"

Wiggins blushed crimson and turned away before Ratcliffe could see. Percy sighed in contentment as the servant picked up a brush and used it.

"I shall be leading a ship called the _Discovery_ , Wiggins," Ratcliffe continued. "It will leave port in precisely one month. So we must prepare quickly, hm?"

"Right, Sir!" Wiggins answered. "I shall do my best, Sir."

"Good. Now, then, it is getting late. We should retire to bed."

"What of your dinner, Sir?" Wiggins set the brush aside and stood up to help Ratcliffe undress.

"I am not hungry. Go to the kitchens for your own, Wiggins."

"Yes, Sir."

The rest of the week passed in a flurry, it seemed. Ratcliffe was visited by countless noblemen and sea captains, by crewmen and even ladies. Wiggins spent his days fussing over Percy, helping the gardener, and going over his meager belongings to ensure he would forget nothing for the trip. Most of his clothes were rather drab, but that couldn't be helped.

There was a sudden, short rap on the door, and then one of the maids was bustling in. "Oh!" Wiggins said, nearly leaping out of his skin. "Hello."

"Let's see what you've got," she said, moving him bodily out of the way to get at his belongings. "No, no, these simply won't do! And here I thought you were just wearing those clothes so as to not get your others worn out."

She pursed her lips and looked at him. "You don't have a nightdress?"

Wiggins mutely shook his head, still surprised at her audacity.

The maid, Sarah, rolled her eyes. "Come along, then. You're lucky Master Ratcliffe is kind and observant, you know. Come, come."

Wiggins followed obediently as she led him to her own room.

"Stand there, Richard," she said, pointing to a small round pedestal near the full looking glass. As he did he watched her bustle around, pulling out several rolls of differently-colored fabrics. Then she approached him with a measuring tape.

"Have I done something?" Wiggins asked, thoroughly perplexed.

"Nah," said Sarah, wrapping the tape around his thin chest. "You should eat more, you know. It's just that Master Ratcliffe has noticed that you wear awful clothes. I'm to make you two new outfits for your journey. I'm excused from my other duties so I can get this done quickly. As for your nightdress, I might not have time to make one. You'll have to borrow one of James'."

"Oh," Wiggins said. But secretly he smiled. Ratcliffe really was the kindest noble he'd ever had the fortune of meeting.

* * *

It didn't take long for Wiggins to discover that if he asked for something, Ratcliffe would provide it. At first Wiggins hadn't even realized it, but soon put the pieces together. Sometimes when he was caring for Percy in Ratcliffe's rooms he would speak to the dog as though he were a person. Sometimes Ratcliffe would sit at his desk working. Wiggins hadn't realized he was listening.

So when he told Percy that he wished that there were some sunflowers in the gardens, he hadn't expected that in the following days some would be planted. Several such instances followed before Wiggins noticed that it was Ratcliffe's doing.

Wiggins wondered how far he could push it.

"Sir, would it perhaps be at all possible that I may go into town?"

Ratcliffe looked at Wiggins in surprise. "What business have you in the lower town, Wiggins?" he'd asked, though his tone was not derisive.

"No business, Sir," Wiggins replied pleasantly. "I just wondered to see the sights, as we'll be leaving it behind in a few short weeks."

"Very well," Ratcliffe said. "I believe George will be driving the horses out tomorrow afternoon to bring back the shopping. Have him take you and bring you back when you've finished looking."

"Thank you, Sir!"

The next day, George did take Wiggins into town, and Wiggins wandered about without really seeing anything. He hadn't really wanted to go into town. He'd just wanted to see if Ratcliffe would agree to allow him, and he had. Wiggins wondered whether the other servants were given such liberties. By the way they spoke highly of him, he supposed he did.

Wiggins pressed a hand over his chest, trying to still his fluttering heart. His cheeks tinged red as he realized his heart sped up when he thought of his master. He would have to be careful not to let it show. As a God-fearing man himself, Wiggins knew that what he was feeling was sinful. And besides - Ratcliffe was his master. He could not allow his feelings to interfere with his work.

And yet the young man found himself nudging closer to the governor, catching whiffs of his perfume as he passed, or perhaps brushing him as he reached past him for the duster. If Ratcliffe felt the same way, he never showed it. Wiggins was all but ready to surrender.

Of course Ratcliffe would not love someone like Wiggins.

Until one night Ratcliffe called him to his bedside. Wiggins woke and quickly entered his master's main chamber, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Ratcliffe lay in his bed, arm laid over his face. For a moment Wiggins thought perhaps the man was sick.

"Wiggins," Ratcliffe said.

"Yes, Sir, I am here," Wiggins said, lighting a candle on his bedside table. "Are you ill, Sir?"

"Perhaps I am, Wiggins. Who knows?"

"Sir?"

Ratcliffe moved his arm and draped it over his chest. He looked wearily up at the canopy of his bed. "I am a terrible man, Wiggins. Perhaps ill in the heart and mind."

Wiggins was aghast. "Of course you're not, Sir!" He pressed his hand to Ratcliffe's brow, feeling for fever. He found none and withdrew, thoroughly perplexed. "I think you're a wonderful master, Sir. You are kind, and good."

The governor chuckled wryly. "And you are naïve, dear Wiggins."

Wiggins stared dumbly.

Ratcliffe's eyes slipped closed, eyebrows pinched in the middle. "You do not understand the inner workings of my mind, Wiggins. I have tried so long to force away these feelings of mine, but to no avail. Then I tried to keep it hidden, and yet every time you pass me, every word you speak, every moment of every day that I see you, I find myself unable to dam these floods of impure thoughts."

"...S-sir?"

"I am hopeless, Wiggins. I am mad, you see."

" _John_ ," Wiggins dared to whisper.

Ratcliffe startled, eyes snapping open to look at his manservant, who blinked under the intensity of his master's gaze but did not falter nor flinch. Wiggins' chocolate eyes shined almost eerily in the flickering yellow candlelight, wearing a serious expression in lieu of his usual goofy and pleasant demeanor.

"Why do you say such things, Sir?" Wiggins asked softly.

The governor swallowed hard, returning his gaze upwards. "I cannot say, Wiggins," he said. "I am afraid."

"Of?"

"What you shall think of me once you hear of it," Ratcliffe answered fervently. "I could not bear it should you leave."

"I shall not leave, then."

"Then you shall change."

"I shall not."

Ratcliffe's lips twisted into a mirthless smirk. "You cannot promise such things, Wiggins."

"Will you tell me," Wiggins said, "should I tell you a secret of mine, Sir?"

Ratcliffe shook his head. "Tell me nothing, Wiggins. No secrets you have shall ever match the sin of mine."

"I am in love, Sir," Wiggins said.

Ratcliffe's breath caught in his throat, it seemed, but after a moment he choked out, "Are you."

"I am," Wiggins said. "It is sinful, but not a feeling I can simply put away, you see."

"Sinful?" Ratcliffe repeated. He lifted his head from the pillow slightly, frowning quizzically. "Love is not sinful, Wiggins."

Wiggins nodded, meeting his master's gaze full-on. " 'Tis another man I love, Sir, and that is what's sinful. Now you must tell me yours."

Ratcliffe gaped at Wiggins for a long moment, jaw dropped on his chest. Suddenly he sat up, and Wiggins moved back a single step. "You love another man," Ratcliffe said.

Wiggins nodded once more. "I do, Sir."

The governor barked out a short laugh, though there was no humor in it. "Wiggins, our secret is the same. I, too, am madly in love - with a man."

"I see," Wiggins allowed a small smile.

"Wiggins, who is this man you love?"

"I wish I could say, Sir, but I cannot."

"Whyever not?"

"I am afraid what you may think of me, should you learn of his name," Wiggins answered, fidgeting slightly.

Ratcliffe chuffed. "Nonsense. We've already shared so much about ourselves. Nothing you say may deter me now. Is it George? You did want to go into town with him, before."

Wiggins laughed, then clapped a hand over his mouth and cleared his throat. "No, Sir, not George. His name is - it's John."

"John. How many Johns live in Londontown alone, I wonder? Come, Wiggins, what is his surname?"

The servant found his bare toes exceedingly interesting. "John..."

"Yes, Wiggins, spit it out."

Wiggins looked up. "The name of the man I love," he said slowly, "is John...Ratcliffe."

His confession was met with stunned silence, and Wiggins did not dare to glance up. He feared what his master's reaction would be.

Painfully strong hands grasped his shoulders, and Wiggins found himself being yanked forward and then crushed against Ratcliffe's chest. He gasped in surprise, but he could do little else in his master's embrace.

And suddenly he understood.

A smile turned up his lips, and Wiggins snaked his arms around Ratcliffe's neck, clinging tightly back. Like this they stayed for several minutes before breaking apart. That night was the first of many nights of a shared bed.

* * *

Time flew quickly.

At last all preparations had been made. The ship, the Discovery, was docked, the crew was chosen, Wiggins had packed for himself, for Ratcliffe, and even for Percy. King James, who funded the expedition, had spared no expense. Finally the day had arrived, and their luggage was sent ahead of them.

Ratcliffe and Wiggins climbed into the carriage at dawn, Percy tucked tightly in Wiggins' arms. He chattered nervously to Ratcliffe, who seemed distracted. Wiggins was not bothered by that; the governor was a busy and thoughtful man, and sometimes thought better when the servant spoke or sang.

Wiggins was dressed in his new bright yellow tunic and orange hose. The fabric was chosen to match his sunny disposition, and he was quite happy with the outfit. Ratcliffe wore a majestic purple suit with a regal red cape, and a medallion that had once belonged to his precious grandmother hung round his neck on a blue ribbon. They had spent much time preparing.

Once they arrived at the harbor, it was to see a host of people. The brightly-painted ship, bearing the royal colors, was docked and in the process of being loaded. Seagulls flocked about the unfurled sails, screeching loudly. Parents, wives, and children saw off the members of the crew, who signed their names on a sheet of parchment before boarding. Several large crates were being hoisted aboard via rope, and men shouted out orders and farewells and jokes in every direction. All in all it was very loud.

Ratcliffe exited first, trusting Wiggins to follow closely behind. The servant did, carrying Percy before him on a plush cushion. The governor resisted the urge to roll his eyes at Wiggins' blatant spoiling of his dog. God forbid Wiggins ever have a child.

He waved, holding himself proudly, to the watching people craning their necks to see between the lines of armed soldiers. Wiggins followed at his heels, smiling pleasantly and carrying Percy aloft a plush velvet cushion. They made immediately for the ship to see that their belongings were delivered safely, and to take inventory.

* * *

When the storm had struck, Wiggins had been sleeping. The crack of thunder, louder than as a drum had been in the small cabin, stirred him, and then the first large wave pitched him from his mattress. Startled, Wiggins pushed himself up from the floor, looking round in the darkness.

Men outside were shouting, scarcely louder than the torrential rain that pounded against the window. The wind buffeted, and with each pitch of the ship on the rolling waves Wiggins feared that the wood around him would splinter and send them all to their watery graves.

In a flash of lightning, Wiggins could see his master standing at the desk near the wall, quietly fumbling for something. The cabin receded into darkness. After a moment, a match was struck and a tiny orange flame illuminated Ratcliffe's calm composure, and he lit a lantern.

"Man overboard!" bellowed one crewman outside.

Ratcliffe furrowed his brow as he looked to the door. "Get dressed, Wiggins, quickly."

Wiggins silently scrambled to comply, finding his tunic at the foot of his bed where he had left it. He pulled it over his head and shoved his gangly arms through the sleeves, then ran one hand over his hair to be sure that it was in acceptable condition.

"Percy, come," Ratcliffe said with a short whistle.

The pug crawled out from underneath a blanket, shivering with fright, and ran into Ratcliffe's arms. Wiggins took the lantern from him and found a parasol.

Ratcliffe smoothed the front of his jacket one-handedly and started forward proudly to see what was the matter with his men.

"Trouble on deck?" he asked loudly, announcing his presence. Much to Wiggins' relief, the storm had mostly let up but for a few droplets of rain here and there. The wind had also died down, and with it the waves had calmed.

A young man lying on the deck covered in a blanket, soaked like all the rest of them, gasped. "Governor Ratcliffe!"

John Smith, a recognizable man no matter where you were, stood up respectfully. "Thomas fell overboard, sir."

Ratcliffe made his way down the stairs leading to the captain's quarters. "Thank heavens he's been successfully retrieved. Well done, Smith." He kept his demeanor aloof, though he was sincerely glad that he had lost none of his men.

"Thank you, sir."

He turned to address the rest of the crew, who looked thoroughly disgruntled. "Don't lose heart, men. It won't be long before we reach the New World, and remember what awaits us there: freedom -"

Percy barked.

"Prosperity -"

Percy barked twice more.

"The adventure of our lives. You are the finest crew England has to offer and nothing, not wind nor rain nor a thousand bloodthirsty savages shall stand in our way. Carry on, men!"

With that, Ratcliffe turned and stepped back up the stair, Wiggins at his heels. The men cheered in approval at his speech, and Wiggins himself was smiling quite broadly.

"A stirring oration, Sir," he complimented. "I'm sure the men were most exhilarated."

"Let us hope so," Ratcliffe responded, lips curling. "I'll need those witless peasants to dig up my gold, won't I?"

Percy growled in his throat, though it was not an unfriendly sound.

Wiggins frowned then. "John."

"Oh, come off it, Wiggins," Ratcliffe chuckled, opening the door so that the servant could enter first. "I was only joking."

"Joking, hm?" Wiggins smirked. "I've got jokes, Sir. I'll tell them to you, someday."

"Will you?" Ratcliffe mused, setting Percy on his bed. "I look forward to it, then."

Wiggins grinned, moving to help Ratcliffe undress for the night.

* * *

After only a few more weeks at sea, Ratcliffe looked out of the window one morning shortly after dawn and saw land. "Look at it, Wiggins," he said, standing aside so that his manservant might see out as well. "An entire New World, chock full of gold, just waiting for me."

Wiggins smiled and continued brushing Percy's white fur. "And scores of adventures waiting for us, right, Percy?" Almost as an afterthought he added, "Do you think we'll meet some savages?"

"If we do," Ratcliffe answered dryly, "we'll be sure to give them a proper English greeting."

"Ooh," Wiggins gasped, lifting up two items for Ratcliffe to see, "gift baskets!"

Ratcliffe rolled his eyes fondly. "And he came _so_ highly recommended."

Before the governor could tell Wiggins how very _awful_ his jokes were as he went to the desk to consult his maps, John Smith knocked and entered, petting the dog on his way. "It's perfect, Governor," he said formally. "The water's deep enough, and we can pull right up to shore."

"Very well, then," Ratcliffe conceded. "Give the order."

"Already done, sir. I've got a crew assembled and they're ready to go."

Ratcliffe nodded approvingly, then said solemnly, "About the natives. I'm counting on you to make sure those heathens don't disrupt our mission."

"Well, if they're anything like the savages I've fought before," Smith shrugged a bit cockily, "it's nothing I can't handle."

"Right," Ratcliffe said. "That'll be all, Smith, there's a good man."

"See ya, Percy," Smith said, patting the pug as he took his leave.

The noble watched him go for a moment, eyebrows pinched. "The men like Smith, don't they?" He sighed heavily and went to stand before his full-length mirror. "I've never been a popular man."

"I like you," Wiggins interjected, wrapping Ratcliffe's sword belt around his waist.

"And don't think I don't know what those backstabbers at court say about me," Ratcliffe continued woefully.

"Oh yes," Wiggins nodded teasingly, "all that talk about you being a pathetic social climber who's failed at everything he's -"

"I'm very well aware that this is my last chance for glory. But mark my words, Wiggins, when King James sees the gold these peasants unearth, success will be mine at last."

Wiggins handed Ratcliffe his feathered hat, which he took and placed firmly on his head.

"I don't doubt you, Sir," Wiggins said. "I've always believed in you. Those who say bad things about you just don't know you."

Ratcliffe allowed a tiny smile to curl up the corners of his lips. "Of course, dear Wiggins. You always see the best in everyone, don't you? Well, with all this gold we're about to find, we'll be in Paris before you know it!"

"I can't wait to see it!" Wiggins exclaimed. "Quickly, you must prepare, Sir!"

"You're right."

Ratcliffe moved to a chest that Wiggins had earlier dragged out from beneath the bed, and unlocked it swiftly. From within it he pulled out an English flag and shook it as though to rid it of dust.

"Watch closely, Wiggins," Ratcliffe said as he strung the pole onto a pole. "I'll show you how one claims land for his country! Percy, stay."

The governor swept regally from the room to see his men's progress on deck. The ship was being hauled to shore so that it could be unloaded of its cargo and passengers more easily. Wiggins busied himself, knowing that it could take quite a few minutes, with preparing Percy a bath.

The water wasn't warm, but it wasn't cold, either. Percy would have to make do, and Wiggins said as much - apologetically. To make up for the lack of heat, Wiggins stirred extra bubbles into Percy's little washtub, and laid beside it a bowl of pit-free cherries for his enjoyment.

Through the open window, Wiggins heard his master calling for the men to gather round. Wiggins poked his head out just in time to see Ratcliffe plant the flag. The wind blew as though approving of this annexation, and the colorful flag of England flew proudly.

"I hereby claim this land and all its riches in the name of His Majesty King James I," declared Ratcliffe, looking every bit of the noble that was in his blood, "and do so name this settlement Jamestown."

Wiggins cheered along with the crewmen, breast swelling with pride in his secret lover and master. "Bravo!" he cried. "Bravo! Beautifully spoken, Sir!" He turned back into the cabin excitedly. "Hurry now, Percy. We must be all squeaky clean for the New World."

He stopped suddenly upon realizing that Percy was no longer in his tub.

"Percy?"

Wiggins followed the sudsy water trail, and found that it led to the deck and off the boat. There, on the shore, was the little pug stuck in the mud. The servant smiled fondly and plucked him up to give him another bath.

Meanwhile, Ratcliffe meandered around the camp as though to oversee the land, but really he was looking for John Smith. He found him near the tree line.

"Captain Smith!" he greeted upon his approach. Smith turned to him cordially though distractedly. "It appears I've selected the perfect location, eh? Not a savage in sight."

Smith smirked wryly. "Just because we don't see them doesn't mean they're not out there, sir."

Ratcliffe's smile fell a bit. "Well then," he said, "perhaps you should venture forth and determine their whereabouts, hm?"

"If there are any Indians out there," Smith said, readying to do just as the governor suggested, "I'll find them." He quickly disappeared somewhere into the forest, and Ratcliffe turned his attention to his chattering, exploring men.

"Now, gentlemen," he said loudly, "to work. You men, get the ship unloaded."

"Right, sir," said one as he took a group with him back toward the shoreline.

"You men build the fort," he commanded another group, who set off to do as he bid. "The rest of you...Break out the shovels! It's time to start digging."

" _Digging_?" repeated two men in unison, sharing a glance. Ratcliffe recognized them as Ben and Lon, two burly Irishmen.

"Why, of course!" he said, grinning. "Let's not forget what the Spanish found when they came to the New World. Gold, _mountains_ of it. Why, for _years_ they've been ravaging the New World of its most precious resources, but now...It's our turn."

Most of the men delegated to digging nodded in agreement or shrugged with diffidence, taking up the tools that had been brought with them from London. Wiggins had come out perhaps half a candle mark later, bringing with him a freshly bathed and dried Percy, whom he handed off to Ratcliffe. The governor was supervising and consulting his maps, his heirloom sword gleaming at his waist.

Wiggins busied himself with helping wherever it was needed. He brought flasks of clean cool water to some sweating men, pushed a wheelbarrow laden with earth, and even took a turn digging when one man complained of blisters. All the while he hummed his lullaby: "Hey nonny nonny, ho nonny nonny..."

Occasionally Ratcliffe would make a round to see how everything was coming along. He spouted encouragements to the digging men, approved of the progress of those unloading the vessel in which they had arrived, and made sure the building of the fort was to the right measurement. There was a deafening boom as a tree fell here and there, fated to become but one piece in a protective wall around Jamestown.

So it was, practically routine, for days, which turned to a week, which turned to two and then three and four weeks. Men had begun to complain long before that, but they had yet to run into real trouble - like savages.

As Smith had returned with no news of them yet on his ventures, Ratcliffe had taken to assuming that if there _were_ savages, they were afraid of the strong Englishmen and had run or hidden away. All the better for them, was his disposition.

In the first days of their arrival, when they were alone, Ratcliffe had spoken long and seriously with Wiggins.

"If ever there _is_ an attack, dear Wiggins," he'd said over their supper, "I want you to hide. Do not worry about anyone but yourself. If anything were to happen to you, I wouldn't know what to do with myself. I should _die_ if you were lost to me."

"Nonsense!" Wiggins had laughed. "If there ever _were_ an attack, I know you'd protect me, Sir. I trust in you."

Ratcliffe wasn't sure if that trust in him was warranted, but he had left it at that and they had not spoken of it again. The longer there was no sign of barbarians, the more at peace he felt. Wiggins would surely be safe.

But the men were disgruntled, nonetheless.

Ratcliffe tried to lift their morale, and his as well. "That's it," he said as he surveyed their work. "Keep at it, men. Keep digging. It's got to be here somewhere."

The men didn't respond, just kept bending and shoveling out sodden earth.

"Anything yet?" Ratcliffe inquired.

A young man, Thomas - the one Smith had saved at sea - leaned on his shovel and swiped his brow. "Nothing but rocks and dirt, sir."

A red-headed Irishman lifted his face to the governor. "Um, how long are we gonna keep digging like this, sir?"

"Aye," agreed his dark-haired brother, Ben, "we're slaving away, busting our backs, day and night -"

"For king and country, I know, I know," Ratcliffe agreed. "And I share your fatigue. Wiggins!" He turned away from them, taking a bite of turkey leg. "Wiggins!"

"Coming!" called the manservant, quickly clipping one last hedge. During his time at the Ratcliffe manor he had perfected his topiary art. He hurried to his master's side, smiling expectantly.

"Dispose of this," he said, dropping the plate into Wiggins' waiting hand. He meant, as he always did, for Wiggins to finish it. They oftentimes shared meals, but had gotten to do so less and less as time wore on. Still, Ratcliffe didn't approve of his scrawny lover eating the same gruel as the commoners.

Wiggins knew this, of course, but he was not hungry at the moment. Instead, he took the leg to Percy, who was sitting lethargically in the shade of a tree. "Who's a good doggy? Who's a good doggy? Fetch, boy!" He threw the leg a short distance away, hoping to revitalize the poor pug, but the dog did not respond. Wiggins went away to wash the dish, humming to himself.

There was a sharp _whizz!_ through the air, much like the sound of a bee passing closely by one's ear. A split second later, chaos erupted.

"Savages!" barked Ratcliffe, looking towards the trees. "It's an ambush, arm yourselves!"

"Run!" Wiggins cried, ducking behind the nearest hiding place: his hedges.

"Arm yourselves!" Ratcliffe commanded the scurrying men. He grabbed a gun himself, handing another to a man. "Make sure every man has a musket! Shoot!"

A shot fired, narrowly missing Ratcliffe himself.

Heart stuttering, Ratcliffe wheeled around to see Thomas lying prostrate on the ground, barrel smoking.

" _Them_ , you idiot!" he snarled at the boy. He stepped over him, raising his own weapon as he kneeled behind the cover of a barrel. He quickly aimed and fired. "Where's that blasted Smith when I need him?!"

A dark-skinned native appeared fleetingly from behind the shadows of a tree, and Ratcliffe took quick and practiced aim, then fired. The savage disappeared with a grunt of pain, and the others went to his aid, gunfire raining on them. They fled.

The Englishmen cheered, pumping their guns and fists in the air as they hollered. Wiggins tentatively came out, shivering almost as much as Percy, who had hidden under a helm during the onslaught.

"Shut up," Ratcliffe said as he stood, "shut up, you fools!"

The settlers fell silent.

"They'll be back," announced the governor. "Everyone back to camp. Get the rest of the cannons ashore and finish building the fort!"

"Aye, Governor!" Ben said.

He and the rest of the men divided into two groups and hurried off to do as they were bid. There was no telling when the natives would return, perhaps with larger numbers.

Ratcliffe turned to Thomas, who was only just then getting back up to his feet. "And you," he said severely, "learn to use that thing properly! A man's not a man unless he knows how to shoot." So saying, he turned and left the shame-faced young man to find Wiggins.

He found the servant standing near his topiary, fidgeting and looking round wide-eyed at the destruction that had been left behind. The smell of gunpowder was thick in the air, even overpowering the constant stench of the sea and the forest on either side of them. Several arrows were notched into wooden posts or stuck uselessly in the mud, and on the other side of the camp several trees smoked with bullet scars.

When he saw his master approaching he looked much more at ease. "You're all right, Sir?"

"Of course, Wiggins," Ratcliffe responded, sweeping past him and making toward his tent. "It takes far more than a couple of savages and their pinpricks to defeat me."

Wiggins smiled indulgently and followed loyally. That night, after a long few weeks of not doing so, they slept together in one another's arms. Their fears melted away like the night in the coming of dawn.

* * *

The next day it rained, the dark storm clouds hovering low and heavy in the sky. The mud was churned up in Jamestown, and the damp found its way into many men's lungs. Ratcliffe remained warm and dry in his tent, but he was far from relaxed.

"I'm doomed!" he lamented as he pored over his maps. "I should be wallowing in riches right now, and I haven't seen so much as a speck! It's got to be here somewhere. Where could it be? I've mined the forests and the hills and swamps, and nothing! _Why_ can't I find it? What am I overlooking?"

"Ah!"

At the familiar but startling voice, Ratcliffe wheeled around to the door flap, where Wiggins had entered. The governor gasped in horror, heart standing still in his chest at the sight which greeted him.

"I..." Wiggins gasped, long face mournful underneath the arrow protruding from either side of his head, "I...I made it myself." He removed the arrow headband from his hair, holding it up for his master to see.

Ratcliffe stopped only a few steps away, despair ebbing away like sediment caught in a flood. Even Wiggins' cheeky grin at his joke had not brought a smirk to his own lips as it usually would have.

He was in such ill mood that he was short even with the precious servant. Ratcliffe yanked the contraption away. "Take that silly thing...Of course, the Indians!" he exclaimed, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Wiggins," he wrapped a meaty arm around the smaller man's shoulders, "why do you think those insolent heathens attacked us?"

Wiggins counted off of his fingers: "Because we invaded their land and cut down their trees and dug up their earth?"

"It's the gold!" Ratcliffe continued, oblivious in his excitement. "They have it and they don't want us to take it from them. Well, I'll just have to take it by force then, won't I?"

"Maybe if we ask, they'll share," Wiggins suggested.

"Don't be so naive, Wiggins."

Ratcliffe stormed out of the tent and into the misty atmosphere of the camp. The rain had stopped several moments before, with only the occasional drip and the thick, slimy mud left as a testament.

"You there!" he said as he approached a group of men loitering in a deep hole. "Where's Captain Smith?"

"Well," hesitated Lon, "he's...gone!"

"Aye," said Ben gruffly. "Your singing must have scared him off!"

Ratcliffe rolled his eyes. "Well, then go get him, for heaven's sake!"

Lon whined, "What if we run into the Indians?"

The governor replied, sarcastically and patronizingly, "That's what _guns_ are for. Now arm yourselves and get moving!"

The brothers scrambled to do as they were told, grabbing two muskets and running out of the encampment and into the forest. Ratcliffe watched them go darkly, then spun and made his way back to his tent. That was when he realized Wiggins had followed him outside, looking uncharacteristically serious.

"Don't look at me like that," he muttered once they were inside.

Wiggins lowered his eyes, but his facial expression did not change.

"Oh, out with it, then!" Ratcliffe said sharply, glaring down at the spindly servant.

Wiggins did not flinch, but he did not look up, either. "John," he said softly, "you're scaring me."

" _Scaring_ you?" Ratcliffe laughed. "Me? Me, and not those savages out there? They're hiding _my_ gold, _our_ gold, Wiggins! Don't you understand?"

"No." At last he looked up into his master's eyes, brow pinched in the middle. "No, I do not understand. Has the bracken water gotten to you, John? The heat? The cold? What is it that's _changed_ you?"

Ratcliffe narrowed his eyes. "Changed me? I haven't changed. It's you who's changed, Wiggins."

"Perhaps we both have," Wiggins conceded. "John, I don't like this place. We should cut our losses, Sir, and go back to England."

While at first Ratcliffe softened a bit, he suddenly drew himself up and scowled severely. "We'll not return to England until I've got my gold! We _need_ this, Wiggins! Don't you want to be happy?"

"I do!" he responded. "But one does not need riches to be happy, John!"

"Nonsense! You wouldn't understand, Wiggins. You've never had a taste of the live I've lived. Money is everything, Wiggins, _everything_!"

Wiggins shook his head. "I don't need money. I don't need it...Only you. I only need _you_ , John. But not the John you are now. I want _my_ John back, Sir. Please."

Ratcliffe stumbled back a few steps, swallowing thickly at the tears that clung to the younger man's lashes. "Wiggins, I...I didn't...I don't..."

"Please, John. Please," Wiggins begged. "You're obsessed with this gold the savages have...Why can't the savages just go, Sir? If they were gone, then so would be gone the danger, and this stranger you've become!"

The governor sighed heavily, passing a hand over his brow. "Of course," he said softly. "I am sorry, Wiggins. You are right. With the savages gone, then we will all be safe. We'll get the gold, once the savages are gone, and then return to England. Don't you worry, Wiggins. I will take care of it."

Wiggins smiled tenderly. "Thank you, Sir."

Ratcliffe returned the smile. "No, thank _you_ , Wiggins."

* * *

It was not even an hour later that Lon and Ben came back into camp, blubbering nonsense about living trees. Most men merely rolled their eyes at the Irishmen's antics, and teased them about letting the dark, scary forest play tricks on them. Shortly after their arrival, John Smith returned.

Wiggins spotted him from the tent and informed his lover that he was back.

"Excellent!" Ratcliffe said, buckling his belt around his waist. "Let us go, Wiggins. We've very important matters to discuss with him."

The couple exited the tent and crossed the muddy terrain.

"Smith!" Ratcliffe barked as he approached. The blonde man turned to him. "Where have you been?"

"I was out scouting the terrain, sir," Smith answered dutifully.

A smirk curled the governor's lips. "Excellent. Then you must know the Indians' whereabouts. We'll need that information for the battle."

"What battle?" Smith asked sharply, brow crinkling.

Ratcliffe lifted his nose proudly. "We will eliminate those savages once and for all."

"No!" interjected Smith. "You can't do that."

The governor paused, raising his eyebrows. "Oh?" he replied. "Can't I?"

"Look," Smith said, "we don't have to fight them."

Thomas, having been drawn by the loud voices, looked with concern at Smith. "John, what's gotten into you?"

"I met one of them."

The men gasped in shock, some even recoiling.

"You what?" Ben gaped.

Thomas uttered, "A savage?"

"They're not savages!" Smith insisted. "They can help us. They know the land, they know how to navigate the rivers, and look! It's food." He reached into his pouch and pulled out the corn Pocahontas had given him.

The men scrutinized the vegetable with critical eyes.

"What is it?"

"It's better than hardtack and gruel, that's for sure," John Smith said.

"I like gruel," Wiggins said, trying to appease the situation.

It didn't work, however, because Ratcliffe drew himself up and knocked away the corn. "They don't want to feed us, you ninnies! They want to kill us! All of us! They've got our gold, and they'll do anything to keep it."

"But there is no gold!" Smith answered.

There was split second of stunned silence, broken by Ben's "No...gold?" The rest of the men chorused in, resulting in an undecipherable jumble of agitated speaking.

Ratcliffe retained his composure and sneered, "And I suppose your little Indian friend told you this."

"Yes," Smith said curtly, decisively.

"Lies!" Ratcliffe snapped. "Lies, all of it! Murderous thieves, there's no room for their kind in civilized society."

Smith protested, "But this is their land!"

"This is _my_ land," Ratcliffe responded harshly. " _I_ make the laws here. And I say anyone who so much as looks at an Indian without killing him on sight will be tried for treason and hanged."

With that, he nodded curtly and spun on his heels, ignoring the shocked looks from his subjects and the mutinous one from Smith. Wiggins followed him back to his tent. The manservant said nothing, but it was obvious to Ratcliffe that he wanted to - and that he was worried.

When they were back in the privacy of Ratcliffe's tent, the governor extended a hand toward Wiggins. The young manservant, of course, accepted it, and Ratcliffe turned over Wiggins' hand and kissed his knuckles.

John Ratcliffe was by no means a foolish man. He knew well enough that Smith would try to sneak out of town that night to warn his heathen friends. He would be ready.

The savages were going to cost him everything if they remained. They kept away his gold, which extended his stay in the deplorable Jamestown, which in turn strained his relationship with his precious Wiggins. The Indians had to be stopped.

Later that night, as Ratcliffe predicted, Smith snuck past the guards and disappeared into the forest. Thomas had followed him, though he was obviously too cowardly to stop the older man. Ratcliffe intervened.

Thomas gasped when he turned and saw the governor looming over him.

"Follow him," the governor said coolly.

"Yes, Governor."

"I want to know where he's sneaking off to," Ratcliffe said.

"Yes, sir," Thomas answered.

"And if you happen to see any Indians," he said, shoving a musket at him, "shoot them. Oh, and Thomas?"

The young man lifted his gaze from the gun expectantly.

"You've been a slipshod sailor and a poor excuse for a soldier. Don't disappoint me again." With that, Ratcliffe turned and went back to his tent. In his experience, demeaning and insulting a man was often enough to anger him, which made that man all the more determined to prove himself. He hoped with Thomas that would be the case.

* * *

After an hour's wait, Ratcliffe had sent a yawning Wiggins to bed. Ratcliffe himself had remained awake and spent the time pacing his small quarters. He was impatient for Thomas to return and tell him the whereabouts of the savages. It was imperative that they attack first, to ambush them and slaughter them whilst they were unprepared.

Not that he didn't have confidence in their superior weapons. Arrows were so primitive, and no doubt they could force the Indians to flee before them. It was a simple matter of finding their nest.

Once the infidels were destroyed, then the gold was as good as his. And once he had the gold, he would be able to return to England with Wiggins in tow, and to receive his due glory from King James himself. Then he, with his fortune and lover, would retire to Paris for the rest of their days. Neither of them would ever have to work again, nor worry about the hideous New World and its creatures.

"Help!" cried a distant voice, one he thought he recognized. "Somebody, help! Help! Help!"

By then most of the men had woken, alarmed, and hurried out to see what the matter. Ratcliffe knew then that it was Thomas, and by the looks of it from his tent he was without Smith.

One of the men tried to calm the younger man.

"It's Smith!" Thomas panted. "They got him!"

"Who got him?" Ben frowned.

"The savages!"

Wiggins had then woken, poking his head out. He immediately hurried to his master's tent, candle held aloft. The manservant yelped in surprise when Ratcliffe jerked him inside, covering his mouth to silence him.

"It's perfect, Wiggins!" he whispered excitedly. Ratcliffe blew out Wiggins' candle so no one outside would see their shadows. "I couldn't have planned this better myself. The gold is as good as mine!"

"Hm?"

Ratcliffe removed his hand, planted a brief kiss on Wiggins' lips, and went further into his makeshift chambers, stopping at his desk to light his own candles. "Help me dress, Wiggins, quickly. I must go before they get too out of control."

"Yes, Sir."

"And I'll need my armor. I go to war tonight."

Wiggins' fingers paused around Ratcliffe's waist. "War, John?"

"Yes," Ratcliffe nodded. "I must take care of the Indians, Wiggins. I must do it myself. A good leader does not send his men out without him. He _leads_ them."

"But -"

"You'll stay here," Ratcliffe said, breaking away from Wiggins' hold and making toward the exit. "For safety's sake. I wouldn't be able to go on should anything happen to you, love. Bring my armor!"

With that he hurried out to rally the townsmen. Wiggins was left standing alone, looking tired and withdrawn.

"We've got to save him!" Thomas was exclaiming upon Ratcliffe's approach. "He'd do the same for any of us."

"Thomas is right!" agreed Ben. "We've got to do something!"

"And so we shall!" Ratcliffe announced his presence grandly. "I told you those savages couldn't be trusted. Smith tried to befriend them, and look what they've done to him. But now I say it's time to rescue our courageous comrade. At daybreak, we attack!"

The men cheered deafeningly and began to pass out their muskets. Wiggins arrived with Ratcliffe's armor, which he strapped on while the governor oversaw the men's preparations. He did his job silently and solemnly, wishing to hold Ratcliffe back from going, but knowing it was no use.

Soon enough, the Englishmen had formed ranks, stuffed their pockets with ball bearings, and awaited Ratcliffe's guidance. Wiggins stood forlornly at the wall of Jamestown, watching his lover lead the way to the Indians. Once they were out of sight and he could no longer hear them, he sighed and trudged back inside.

It felt as though he were the only one left in the world.

And it was with that thought that suddenly Wiggins realized that Percy was missing. Oh, what a terrible servant he was!

"Percy!" Wiggins called. His voice echoed back at him, and was his only response aside from the constant wash of the waves against the shore and the wind rustling through the trees. "Percy!" He waited another moment.

The dog did not come.

Wiggins turned forebodingly back to the gate. Percy must have ventured off into the woods and gotten lost.

It was up to him to go save him.

He swallowed thickly, loathe to disobey direct orders from Ratcliffe. But if Percy was out there, then he _had_ to. Wiggins would receive his punishment later, if any came. He steeled himself, lifting his chin and thrusting out his chest confidently as he had seen his master do countless times. It did indeed make him feel braver.

While he still had the courage, Wiggins grabbed a spare musket. He had the rudimentary knowledge of how to shoot it, but he was certainly no expert. No matter. Perhaps the perceived threat of simply pointing one would be enough to scare away any apprehenders.

Wiggins snuck to the gate. "Percy!" he tried again.

Again there was nothing.

He sighed and stepped foot out of the relative safety of Jamestown's walls, musket raised as though expecting at any moment for a dark-skinned savage to leap out and attack him, whooping shrilly. No such thing occurred, and step by step Wiggins made it closer to the tree line.

His nerves were bedraggled, to say the least.

"Hey, nonny nonny," he whispered shakily to himself, looking around. "Ho, nonny nonny..."

The trees loomed menacingly over him, casting deep shadows and tripping him with their roots. Woodland animals called at intervals and responded to others, often making Wiggins jump. If his fuse had been lit, the musket would have been fired long before.

He considered going back, at least for a lamp, but then decided against it. If he was this scared, then it was certain that Percy was, too. Perhaps even more so.

So Wiggins continued on slowly but surely, head swiveling in every direction. The gun's barrel shook violently as he was unable to keep it aimed even at nothing. He was simply shaking so!

"Percy?" he called again in a wavering voice. His mouth felt dry, and he swallowed thickly again. He wished for a cool drink of water, but the pool he spotted ahead he did not trust, even if the trees were drinking from it. "Oh, Percy, where are you?"

Wiggins, trembling, stepped up onto a humongous, twisted tree root and walked along it to avoid stepping in the squelching mud around the spring. He braced himself on the trunk with a hand, balancing the musket on his opposite shoulder.

There was a splashing sound ahead, and Wiggins froze.

He fumbled with the gun and pointed it in the direction that he'd heard the noise. "Who's there?" he whispered, huskily. "Percy?"

Everything was silent but for the sounds of the woods, so Wiggins slowly, marginally relaxed. Nothing had attacked him. He was safe.

He inched forward, avoiding the hanging tendrils of the large willow he'd happened upon. This tree grew at the edge of a clear pool, and a wide, clean-cut stump rose from its base, making a great sitting place. Or, if it was needed, a tall standing place to look out over the dark land.

Wiggins clambered onto the sturdy ledge, laying his musket at his feet where he crouched. First he looked around to be sure that there was no one else, and then he stood up cautiously.

He cupped his hands around his mouth and called as loudly as he dared, "Percy! Oh, Percy!"

" _Don't_ you know that people are trying to sleep?"

Nearly leaping out of his shoes, Wiggins whipped around toward the creaky voice so quickly that he lost his balance and tipped over. But before he fell, a strong willow vine wrapped around his thin torso and planted him back onto his feet.

It only served to frighten him further, and he blanched. Just before he lost consciousness, he could have sworn he spotted a face in the knot of the willow.

* * *

He came to with a small moan, feeling quite out of sorts.

"There, now," said an old woman's voice. "Welcome back, young man."

"Who-?" He cut short, eyes fluttering open.

There was no one with him; he was lying on a stump next to his musket, sheltered under the hanging canopy of willow leaves.

"My name," said the voice belonging to no one, "is Grandmother Willow."

At her name, Wiggins' eyes were drawn unwillingly to the knot on the tree. Indeed, there was a face!

"What is this witchery?" he mumbled, staring. "Of all things in this unholy land!"

"Unholy?" Grandmother Willow repeated, raising a wooden eyebrow. "You should meet my granddaughter so she can set you straight as she did that other white man! You might catch up to her, if you follow her now."

"Other white man?" Wiggins gasped. "You mean John Smith? Oh, that poor, wayward soul, ensnared in the savages' evil magic!" He clutched his hair in despair. "And if even Smith was captured, then it's just as well that Percy is! And even _my_ John!

"If only I had known that this would happen, then I would have tried to make John stay home in London, or even to go to Paris. This is madness! We'll all die here in this backwater place. _New World_ , indeed. More like Hell, it is!

"No, _worse_ than Hell, this place is. I'd much rather die now and go to Hell, where I'm destined anyway. Anywhere but here!" Wiggins burst into miserable tears and buried his face in his hands.

Grandmother Willow had waited patiently for Wiggins to finish his tirade, and laid a comforting tendril on his shoulder. "There, there, young man. I don't know what this _Hell_ is you speak of, but it certainly sounds unpleasant. Why would someone like you be bound for such a destination?"

Wiggins sniffled and lifted his head, resting his chin on his drawn-up knees. "I am sinful," he answered. "I am in love with a man, but that is an unforgivable sin, according to my religion; therefore, I am going to Hell once I die."

The old woman in the tree looked rather taken aback. "Sinful? Why, no! You and your lover are Two-Spirits!"

"Two-Spirits?"

"Yes," Grandmother Willow smiled. "My people believe that those who are born of the same gender and yet love one another are special gifts, indeed. We call them Two-Spirits, and they hold great renown and responsibility."

Wiggins looked surprised and thoughtful for a moment, but then shook his head. "But...Well, I suppose I'll have to respect your religion. I can't very well change your ideals, just as you can't change mine."

"Hm," Grandmother Willow hummed in agreement. "You are wise, young man."

He shook his head. "No, not at all. If I were wise, then I would know what to do. My John went to war, you know. And I can't find Percy - our beloved dog. I just don't know what to do! I'm a failure."

"Dog? That tiny little yapping thing?" Grandmother Willow chuckled. "White men are certainly strange!"

Wiggins immediately perked up. "You've seen my Percy?"

"I have," she nodded. "He will return when it suits him, I expect. But it sounds to me like you've a rather large problem. My granddaughter has informed me that _her_ lover, John Smith, was to be executed at dawn."

"No!" Wiggins gasped.

"I gave her the only advice I could," Grandmother Willow said. "I think perhaps it will help you as well. Would you like to hear it?"

Wiggins lowered his eyes, torn. "I s'pose 'twouldn't hurt to listen," he mumbled.

" _Listen with your heart, you will understand_."

The Englishman frowned. "What do you mean?"

She only smiled patiently. "It means, young man, to do as your heart commands. Your heart will always know what is right."

A gust of wind whistled through the dark trees, tousling the vines and caressing Wiggins' skin. For a moment, he almost thought he heard Ratcliffe's tender whispering in his ear. "Paris," he said under his breath.

Then he abruptly stood. "I must go now, Grandmother Willow," Wiggins said. "I will return to Jamestown and await John's return. Then we will forsake this awful land and go to Paris!" He marched away, the musket held loosely at his side. He no longer feared the woods.

Grandmother Willow laughed happily, glad to see the Two-Spirit's humor lifted. She hoped he found everything for which he searched.

* * *

Wiggins was shocked, to say the least, when Ratcliffe was dragged back to Jamestown bound and gagged by his own men. He was thrown into a nearby tent outside of which guards were designated and posted, and Wiggins was not allowed to see the raging man within.

He was horrified to hear about Ratcliffe's supposed misdeeds, and felt horribly guilty because he knew that he had been a driving force. Wiggins did not participate in the celebrations, but stood hidden a ways from the tent, waiting for an opportunity to sneak past the two crewmen turned guards.

John Smith had been shot by Ratcliffe, they said. Sure enough, Wiggins had seen that Smith had been shot, but there was no proof that _his_ John had done it. If he had, then it might have been accidental. Men had always taken a disliking to Ratcliffe without really knowing him, simply because of his status.

He clenched his fists, digging his nails into his palms. It wasn't fair.

The day came shortly thereafter that they were bound again for England. Quite a few men stayed behind in Jamestown. Smith was returning for proper English care, and Ratcliffe was bound to be tried in court.

Wiggins sniffled and wiped his eyes with his handkerchief as he witnessed Ratcliffe's rough treatment. He was shoved, shouting obscenities through the gag, into a small rowboat much to the amusement of the others.

"And he came _so_ highly recommended," Wiggins sighed miserably.

When the Indians came bearing gifts, Wiggins was delighted to see that Percy had come with them, looking as pampered as ever. After a quick, ecstatic greeting to the beloved pug, he scooped him up and hurried to the nearest ship-bound boat. It wouldn't do for the savages to claim Percy as their own.

Wiggins understood Grandmother Willow's words, and he'd already decided what was the right thing to do. But now he had to think of a way to do it. He had perhaps two months or so to plan it.

Since he was not allowed to see Ratcliffe, who was being held below deck, Wiggins spent his time caring for Percy and watching the seascape. His plan slowly took form.

* * *

Imprisoned, like lowly scum.

Ratcliffe, as soon as they had docked in London's port, was sent off to the jail to await his trial. It had already been three days, which he had spent prowling his small, dank cell like a caged tiger. His demands to be brought proper meals were left ignored - sometimes were scornfully rejected by the warden - and he was forced to eat watery gruel and dry bread. It was not much different than what the Jamestownsmen had eaten. He had been allowed no visitors, and though he longed to know how his precious Wiggins fared, he was loathe to ask and accidentally let slip their relationship.

He contented himself with demanding that he was supplied with parchment, ink, and a pen. It was done, thankfully, and Ratcliffe spent the next two days agonizing over what to write to his manservant.

There was no doubt in his mind that his letter would be read, so it was out of the question to write anything truly heartfelt. And though Wiggins was clever, Ratcliffe doubted he'd be able to decode something mundane, and might feel as though Ratcliffe were being cold and cruel.

He sighed.

An echo reached down the corridor of cells to his ears, and Ratcliffe reared his head. The sound came again, and this time he recognized it as -

"Percy!" Ratcliffe gaped.

The little pug came trotted down the aisle, curly tail wagging as he spotted his master. Even in the dark, smelly dungeon the dog was clearly unperturbed, and he squeezed through the bars to reach Ratcliffe.

The ex-governor knelt and scooped him up. He grasped the leash that was trailing behind him, raising his eyebrows in alarm. "What on earth are you doing here, Percy? How did you find me?"

Heavy footsteps approached, echoing across the moldy walls. Ratcliffe drew himself up to his full height, nose lifted defiantly. He said nothing as the guard arrived at his cell door and fit the key into the lock. He wasn't going to give up his pug without a fight.

Ratcliffe opened his mouth to state as much, but the guard lifted his helmet, revealing a cheekily grinning Wiggins.

"Wiggins?!"

"We must go now," Wiggins whispered, "if we're to catch the boat."

"Boat?" Ratcliffe looked concerned and shocked, still.

"To someplace far away, Sir. Where we can live together happily ever after," Wiggins smiled and pulled a roll of parchment out of his waistband. "I hear Paris is nice this time of year."

Ratcliffe took the papers in his free hand and glanced over them. The documents detailed their passage to France over the English Channel. "But," he looked back up, "we have no money, Wiggins!"

"No," Wiggins agreed calmly, stuffing the parchment back. He took Ratcliffe's hand in his own. "But we have each other. You, my wonderful master, and me, your faithful servant." He bowed grandly, but Ratcliffe wasted no time in stepping forward out of the open cell door and crushing his lips against Wiggins'. The servant kissed back eagerly.

After a moment, the older man pulled away. "Then what are we waiting for, Wiggins? We must go! We have a boat to catch."

Hand in hand and with Percy in tow, the couple stole away into the darkness, disappearing without a trace to their happily ever after.

End.

 **A/N:** Thanks for reading!


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